She’s going to leave you, a voice whispered in her head.
It wasn’t her own voice, but it didn’t belong to the Red Death, either.
“I know,” Rose said quietly, pressing on the glass. The hunger had diminished but not disappeared. Sadness clawed at her now more than hunger. The voice understood.
Priya would have to leave. Rose would have to stay. Priya’s family would want her out of here, out of danger. She would argue at first, but Rose would insist. She would break Priya’s heart if she had to, to make sure she would be safe.
It wouldn’t be safe in here, Rose knew. Not until the SRC found a way to help her.
Maybe not ever.
Alena Boudreau had promised they would never stop trying. They had already found a way to suspend the spread of the bacteria, to reduce the infection, which Alena said gave her faith they might be able to kill it. Burn it out, she’d said.
For now, the fever remained.
And the voices.
Dad won’t leave you here alone, one of those voices said.
Rose smiled and wiped at her eyes. She’d been stubborn, trying not to cry. The hunger might still be in her, the malignant old god, the dead thing that spoke to her. But the other presence inside her felt even stronger, and it soothed her fever and gave her courage.
I won’t ever leave you, either, it said, inside her head. I love you.
“I love you, too, Maeve,” Rose whispered, leaning against the glass of her cage. “I love you, too.”
* * *
Walker had showered and shaved. They’d come for more blood tests and given him orange juice and coffee and had scrounged up a box of Pop-Tarts from somewhere. He’d met with Alena three separate times, talked to Kat and Rue. He’d seen Ted Sinclair only briefly, and that was enough. With General Wagner gone, the man’s grief and pain needed a target, and Walker didn’t feel like volunteering for that assignment. The longer Ted went without a drink, the worse it would be.
Ted planned to use quarantine to dry out. Walker didn’t bother to warn him that he would be putting himself through hell. What could be worse than the hell he’d already endured?
Now Walker sat in a conference room on sublevel two. Hazmat teams were doing biohazard cleanings on the upper floors first. When they were ready to start on sublevel two, he’d be quarantined inside one of the lab isolation rooms, but for now, the only people who came down were in hazmat suits. Alena had been cleared of quarantine already, but she planned not to leave the facility until no doubt remained.
All of which meant no sunshine for Walker for a while. No fresh air.
No going home.
But at least he had his phone. Alena had given him network access so he could communicate with the outside world, something she told him only two others had been given. A sign of trust, she told him. An investment in the future of their working relationship.
Walker had managed not to laugh.
After all of this, she thought he would take her call the next time she had an assignment for him. The Global Science Research Coalition needed him, she’d said.
Walker sat in the dark in the conference room, the light from the corridor barely penetrating the shadows around him. He stared at his phone, trying to compose a text in his head but not finding the words.
Finally, he tapped out a message.
* * *
Still out of town, and now I’ve got this infection. Doctors want to keep an eye on me, so I’ll be away another week or so. All I’ve been able to think about is the way I left things between us. You’re growing up, kid, and tough as it is for me to hear, I know what you said is true. You don’t need me, and that’s okay. But you should know, Charlie … I need you. When I get home, I’m going to ask you for another chance. You don’t owe it to me, and I don’t deserve it, but I’m going to ask, anyway. Once I get back to you, I’m not going to leave town for at least a year. Whatever it takes, I’m around for that year. If you’re willing to take the job on, I’ll put you in charge of my schedule. When you feel like seeing me, I’ll be there. You don’t have to answer right now. Give it some thought. I love you, kid. Take care of your mother. See you soon, I hope.
Walker stared at the message. Furious as Charlie had been, it seemed like a paltry effort, but since he couldn’t go home just yet and tell his son these things in person, and he didn’t want to let more time pass, he had to get the words out. It was the longest text he’d ever written.
He hit Send.
Took a breath, staring at the screen.
Watched as the message went through and the word Delivered appeared.
Thought about Ted Sinclair and the way he’d judged the man. Thought about what Ted had lost and what kind of father he really was. What kind of father he wanted to be.
The phone darkened, and Walker tapped it to keep the screen from locking.
Then he noticed his message had been read.
Below it, an ellipsis. Three dots.
…
Charlie had started to text a reply.
Walker stared at his phone, waiting.
…
…
…
…
Acknowledgments
It’s impossible to properly thank all of the people who are there with support and encouragement, both personally and professionally, but that list must begin with my fantastic agent, Howard Morhaim, and my manager, Pete Donaldson. Sincere thanks to the whole team at St. Martin’s Press, especially Michael Homler for his friendship and passion, and Cassidy Graham for keeping the trains running on time. Much gratitude to Megan Gelement, Caspian Dennis, and Heather Baror, to Cat and Michael Scully, and to Maria Carlini for once again answering stupid questions.
Writing is a solitary profession, but no work is done nor life lived in a vacuum. It would be impossible to remember everyone who has taken the time to make my days a little brighter over the course of writing Red Hands and the list would be absurdly long. I’m deeply grateful to have some wonderful friends. That said, there are some I can’t go without thanking for their friendship, support, and advice, including Tim Lebbon, Tom Sniegoski, Jim Moore, Amber Benson, John McIlveen, Bracken MacLeod, Jaime Levine, Hillary Monahan, Brian Keene, Mary SanGiovanni, Rachel Deering, and my sister, Erin Golden.
Finally, my love and eternal gratitude to Connie, Nicholas, Daniel, and Lily.
Also by Christopher Golden
The Pandora Room
Ararat
Dead Ringers
Sons of Anarchy: BRATVA
Snowblind
Baltimore, or, The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire (with Mike Mignola)
Joe Golem and the Drowning City (with Mike Mignola)
Father Gaetano’s Puppet Catechism (with Mike Mignola)
The Boys Are Back in Town
Wildwood Road
The Ferryman
Strangewood
Straight On ’til Morning
Soulless
The Myth Hunters: Book One of The Veil
The Borderkind: Book Two of The Veil
The Lost Ones: Book Three of The Veil
The Ocean Dark (as Jack Rogan)
The Shadow Saga
Of Saints and Shadows
Angel Souls and Devil Hearts
Of Masques and Martyrs
The Gathering Dark
Walking Nightmares
The Graves of Saints
King of Hell
About the Author
CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN is the New York Times bestselling and Bram Stoker Award–winning author of Ararat, Snowblind, Dead Ringers, and Of Saints and Shadows, among many other novels. With Mike Mignola, he is the cocreator of two cult favorite comic book series, Baltimore and Joe Golem: Occult Detective. Golden is also the editor of such anthologies as Seize the Night, The New Dead, and Dark Cities, and the cohost of the popular podcast Defenders Dialogue. He lives in Massachusetts. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgments
Also by Christopher Golden
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
RED HANDS. Copyright © 2020 by Christopher Golden. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Jonathan Bush
Cover photographs: trees © iStock/Getty Images Plus; handprint © Rayyy/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-24630-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-24631-8 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250246318
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: 2020
Red Hands: A Novel Page 33